


supposition

by xandyjacks



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:24:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xandyjacks/pseuds/xandyjacks
Summary: To know him was to love him. I’d wager his other paramours still loved him too, and in fact, that they always would. But my ever loveless fey-child was never satisfied unless their love was as all consuming as his, unless it burned him alive in the flames of their passion just as brightly as he’d burned on the steps of the cathedral in New York.Or, perhaps, unless it burned him as brightly as mine.-Marius/Armand, in which Armand actually calls Marius out on being kinda shitty.





	supposition

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this it was meant to be self indulgent Armand smut, but uh... yeah.  
> I have a lot of feelings about this pair, honestly. I first read TVA when I was maybe 12/13, and at the time I loved these two, but now that I'm a bit older I struggle to write them without acknowledging that actually, their relationship was not healthy, and Marius deserves a lot more flak than he gets.  
> Side note, I haven't reread Blood and Gold in many years, so absolutely should not be attempting to write Marius, but we're here now, so what the hell.

Oh, Amadeo.

Sweet, beautiful, broken Amadeo.

I would be lying to say that my passion for him never waned. I didn’t need to see into his mind to know he missed it, either. He’d said it to David, and David thought on it often. Thought on that beautiful youth, consumed in my very passion. Wrapped up in it when he was still virile, still lusting, and pining for it even now. Oh, David’s mind did paint some pretty pictures of my wayward cherub.

Were he mortal I would have called him a dirty old man, but no. His appreciation for Amadeo, svelte, nymphlike Amadeo, was purely that of an aesthete. The Magnum Opus of his love for Amadeo was in a desk drawer somewhere, ink on paper. That was the crux of his want for the boy, and he had been sated.

I hadn’t read my child’s manuscript. Perhaps a part of me knew that reading back on our love through my fledgling’s eyes would rekindle feelings inconvenient for both of us. I was the one who shut his mind to me, after all, what gave me the right to leaf through his thoughts now?

I digress.

My passion for him waned, this was true.

He knows it, just as I do. Time and trauma murder passion, but love stands true.

Do I still love him? Of course.

Blood of my blood, in that eternally youthful frame, eyes that spoke of centuries, that spoke of me.

To know him was to love him. I’d wager his other paramours still loved him too, and in fact, that they always would. But my ever loveless fey-child was never satisfied unless their love was as all consuming as his, unless it burned him alive in the flames of their passion just as brightly as he’d burned on the steps of the cathedral in New York.

Or, perhaps, unless it burned him as brightly as mine.

He gave himself away to me one night, while Sybelle hammered away passionately at her perfected melody in the villa, fingers all the more deft now I’d given her to him for all time.

Golden eyes stayed on mine for just a moment too long, glinting in the candlelight. He almost looked mortal then, the soft yellow glow dulling the whiteness of his skin.

Oh, to hold him again. To taste the human salt of his skin, to feel his little body shake in rapture. To see that beautiful face twisted in the very ecstasy of the saints he held so dear.

“Armand,” I said, low, unsure as to where my own mind was taking me. “Come.”

He followed me without question, ever the perfect thrall, his bare feet making no sound on the marble floor as I led him up to my own room.

It wasn’t until the door had closed behind him that he dared speak.

“What do you need?” His voice was soft, small. Amadeo was more whole now than I’d known him in centuries; Love was the only thing that brought the sad creature to life, but the gentle way he spoke to me now was not love. Deaf to his thoughts though I was, his face spoke volumes. He was afraid, and the thought of it pained me.

“Nothing,” I replied, more acidic than intended what with the bitter taste this realisation left in my mouth. “I supposed we might speak alone.”  
The cherub stilled, eyes fixed on the floor. His hair fell like silk curtains on either side of his face, the light caught in curled strands bringing auburn to life in fiery hues.

“Lestat is downstairs still.” He said after a long moment, unwilling still to look me in the eye.

“Lestat doesn’t care for our chatter,” I reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. I ached to see his face. “I don’t reckon anyone else does, either. Take a seat, child.”  
For all his transgressions, the boy still couldn’t bring himself to disobey me.

“What did you suppose we’d have to say, Master?” And oh, hearing his lilting voice utter that word brought many things back to me. Humid nights, red silk sheets, that little voice crying out for more.

I thought the suffering had killed my Amadeo, left only blank Armand in my little angel’s skin, but he glanced up and his eyes glittered just as they always had when he looked upon me. For a brief moment his hardships didn’t matter to me. I forgot his centuries, then, too caught up in the perfect hairpin curve of his Cupid’s bow to think of much else at all.

“I supposed,” I said, playing along with his game, watching the way his thin legs crossed delicately at the ankles where he sat on the red velvet cover of my bed. “We might just... spend time together. When I saw you, whole, unburnt, I was...”

Relieved?

Overjoyed?

Exhalted?

No, I was in love.

I leaned in softly for a kiss in place of finishing the sentence, and Amadeo obliged me. I never doubted he would, but the gentle tilt of his head towards mine was nothing short of sublime in its silent submission.

It spurred me on, simple though it was. I pressed in harder, wrapping my arms around his small waist, pulling him close as I bloodlessly ravaged his sweet mouth.

“You mock me,” The angel spoke when I parted from him, flushed lips close enough that they brushed against mine with every word. “No... You taunt me.”

His words were the softest vitriol, such pain condensed into a voice that was as clear and beautiful as the tolling of a church bell.

“I do no such thing,” I sounded as though I were about to laugh. Perhaps I was; the idea was laughable. “Indulge me, Amadeo. Indulge my selfishness, just for a while.”

"Armand," He said softly, so tender in his defiance that it soothed the sting of my pride somewhat. "Master."

"Then indulge me, Armand." I retorted, leaning in to take his lips again.

I knew the shape of him so well it seemed that we'd never been apart. Every inch of him was the same as it had always been, the same as it always would be, and I wondered if my own form offered the same silent comfort I found in the gentle curve of his waist.

"You are beautiful." I said, barely pulling away to form the words.

His lips left mine then, the russet haired beauty righting himself once more, sitting up on the bed.

"A beautiful crime is still a crime, Master," His voice was so small, so soft that it pained me. "I try to forget, but I can't. You hold me with such love, yet you still regret me."

I sighed, then, taking a seat beside him. I ached to be closer, to hold him, but the furrow of his eyebrows was enough warning to know I was not welcome.

"I don't regret you, cherub, I regret your youth," He pressed his lips together, as if supressing a frown. "I regret the suffering you went through because your mind was prematurely made eternal."

"My mind was not at fault, Marius," His use of my name shocked me, and I felt my eyes widen. "You made me. You took me, you kept me, you made me what I am and then you left me. And you found me again in the depths of despair, a sheltered child, starved and tortured and broken and lost, and you left me."

His eyes burned like flames through amber. I felt pain, then, deep in my chest. I knew he was right, but words escaped me.

"If my youth hurts you so, why do you still call me cherub, call me 'child' so fondly? You regret me for my age, you blame my suffering on it, and yet you look at this face with adoration as if I were just another statue," He continued, delicate hands balling up the velvet sheets. It was almost a paradox, something I'd seen him do over and over, but never before in anything but passion. "You made me, and yet you spite me for it."

I wanted to hold him. It seemed a tragedy I couldn't just pull him into my arms, hush him until he went quiet, but... I needed to respect his pain. Needed to accept my role in his tragedy.

"I am sorry," The words seemed flat, empty. Was there anything I could say to heal the hurt I'd done to him? If so, it would take tomes, libraries, pages upon pages of apologies to this fallen angel, this dark saint. "I've said and done irredeemable things."

He stared at me, and while I thought myself unworthy I looked at his face, expecting the cherubic countenance twisted into rage, but...

Amadeo smiled at me.

His eyes filmed with blood tinged tears, and his eyebrows furrowed into the most tragic expression, but still he smiled.

"You have, Marius," There was happiness in his voice, even as it threatened to break. "As have I. The only thing we can do is try to move on. 'Time heals all wounds', right? My wounds are deep and many, and I cannot say that they will cease to trouble me any time soon, but..."

"I love you." I spoke, interrupting him. As had become so common when dealing with my fledgling, I struggled to find the words to describe what I felt.

Idly, I wondered if Amadeo had ever realised he grew closer and closer to his beloved Christ as every year passed, a paragon of his own values. I raised a hand to caress his face, but hesitated, unsure as to whether or not my touch was welcome.

"And I you, Master," He made the decision for me, leaning into my hand, velvet soft cheek against my fingertips. "Even after everything. I just need to know you acknowledge your own hand in it."

The sting of being schooled by my own student was nothing compared to the affection I felt, the relief of knowing I had been wrong about him. His trauma hadn't hollowed him out, if anything, the opposite was true. He felt more than most, and that was his burden.

I held him then, pulled him into my lap, kissed at his hair and gently ran my fingertips over his soft skin. He allowed it, if nothing else, leaning into me. When he spoke it was so soft even I could barely hear.

"Be my slave again."

I smiled against him. This sentimental angel would be the death of me.

When my fangs pierced him, it was ecstasy. His skin was harder, smoother, than before, but the years had sweetened the taste of him, and I felt it like fire as I swallowed the first draughts.

He trembled in my arms, dark eyelashes fluttering, the heart hammering in his chest as rapid and frenzied as a hummingbird's wings. It thrilled me.

Bound together again, the trauma that was previously unspoken seemed to wash away with every mouthful of him I took. I saw Paris, saw how he missed me, how desperate and desolate he'd become. They were the ashes, and this boy, flesh and blood beneath my hands and teeth, was the phoenix that had risen.

When the force of his heartbeat waned, I stopped. His blood burned, positively glowed in every part of me. I was stricken, and I leaned up to kiss him, let him taste his own blood on my tongue.

"Be a better slave this time."

His smirk against my lips was positively devilish, and I relished in it.  


**Author's Note:**

> spoiler: it might still end up self indulgent Armand smut.


End file.
